True heroism

IVY LODGE.

"TIRESOME—how tiresome! another rainy day!" cried Tom Gore, turning impatiently from the window.

"Pretty sort of holidays these are, truly," muttered Louis. "One cannot get out for five minutes for a walk, but back one is driven by a shower! Here's the last day of our Easter holidays, and not one—no, not one fair day have we enjoyed."

"Except Sunday," suggested Jessy.

"Oh! Sunday—I did not count Sunday. But what are we to make of ourselves all this long morning?"

"Let's have games," suggested merry little Julia.

"What games? We're tired of all."

"And we must have nothing that is noisy, on account of old Mrs. Presgrave! No fun! I shall almost be glad to get back to school again," cried Louis, "we are so moped up here!"

For want of something better to do, Willy, quietly seated in the corner, was cutting a round hole in his drum; a box of paints lay on the table, with which Bella had been daubing, certainly not adorning, the plates in the last book which her uncle had given her. There was a broken draughts-board under the table, but half of the draughtsmen were lost, and Tom and Louis, who had taken to chess, were beginning to quarrel over the game.

"I'll move there—check!" cried the former, putting down his queen with an air of triumph.

In a moment an ambushed red knight pounced down upon the square, and the white queen was in the hand of Louis.

"I'll take back that move. I did not see."

"Oh! But your hand was off!" shouted Louis. "That's not fair!"

"It's all fair!" cried the boy, reddening with excitement, and holding his trophy behind him. In a moment sport would have been exchanged for anger—perhaps for blows—when the door was gently opened, and an aged gentleman with silvery hair, and a stoop which told of years and weakness, but a bright cheerful smile, like sunshine in winter, entered the room and joined the party. In a moment the angry voices were stilled, young Willy pushed aside his drum, Bella sprang from the table, and all joyfully welcomed the old man.

"What are you all doing? How are you all amusing yourselves, my young friends?" he said, after a short pause, without appearing to notice the sounds of strife which had attracted him to the room.

"Doing, uncle? Why, nothing," said little Julia, running to him, and gently leading him to his armchair. It may be remarked, by the way, that all the children addressed Mr. Presgrave as uncle, though Tom and Willy alone were his nephews, the rest of the young people now at Ivy Lodge being on a visit to the family.

Perhaps my young reader would like to be introduced to the little party now assembled in the play-room together. That tall boy with the dark eyes, and nut-brown complexion, and large heavy frame, is Tom; and there is his more lithe and active brother Willy, with his great earnest eyes now open wide with attention, now sparkling with merriment and fun. Julia Merton is their cousin, an only child, but one who finds brothers and sisters in every boy and girl who knows her. Her smile tells of a light and joyous spirit, a cheerfulness not readily to be damped, a temper not easily provoked—she is the darling and plaything of all.

Bella, the young poetess, who writes sonnets on Leonidas; the fiery Louis; and quicksilver Amy, to whom the worst penance is to have to sit still—these, with blue-eyed, kind-hearted, dull-headed Jessy, delighted to escape from a schoolroom in London, had come to Ivy Lodge in the beginning of the week, for change of air and the pleasures of the country. There remains but one of the party to be mentioned, Percy Manners, a schoolfellow and companion of the Gores—a sickly youth, stunted in his growth, and supported on crutches, whose chief pleasure appeared to be a quiet corner and a book. He was buried in the recess of one of the windows, with the curtain drawn before him to screen him from view, till the entrance of Mr. Presgrave drew him from his retirement, and he gathered with the others around the old man.

Mr. Presgrave was the uncle of Tom and Willy's mother. He had been as a parent to her in the days of her youth, and now, in his old age, he and his invalid wife were the beloved inmates of her home. Mr. Presgrave had passed through a long pilgrimage in this world, with his eyes steadily fixed upon a better. Religion to him was a thing of reality, not confined to the Sabbath or the hour of prayer, but a living principle that governed his life, that was seen in his actions and known by his words—nay, that left its calm imprint even on his countenance, which few could behold without loving.

"Doing nothing!" exclaimed the old gentleman, slowly seating himself, and looking round upon the party. "Why, that is the most tedious occupation that I know of!"

"Why, uncle, we've nothing to do," replied Louis. "We had expected to have got out, and to have had cricket, and trap-ball, and kite-flying; but this horrible weather—"

"Hush! my boy," said Mr. Presgrave gently. "I never like to hear any one abuse the weather; it is the Almighty's sending, and of what He sends, man has no right to complain. But," added he in a more lively tone, "I find you all in a difficulty from which I am bound to try to relieve you, for if 'idleness is the mother of mischief,' she is also the parent of a large family of other evils. Can you name to me any of her sons and daughters?"

"Gossip," said Bella.

"Discontent," added Willy.

"Fighting and quarrelling," whispered little Julia.

"Now, knowing the evil, let us find out the remedy."

"O uncle! Do tell us one of your long stories!" At these words of Julia's there rose a little storm of entreaties, for Uncle Presgrave was famous for his tales and adventures.

He waved his hand to command silence, and replied: "By all means let us have stories, but you would not have me begin one now at ten o'clock in the morning! We will have them in the evening, and in the meanwhile, as a cure for idleness, why should you not each prepare one yourselves? You shall be given a common subject, and each shall collect an anecdote or a tale, to add to the amusement of the rest."

"A capital plan!" cried Bella and Louis, clapping their hands; the rest of the party had a more doubtful expression on their countenances, except poor Percy, who smiled at the idea of an amusement in which his infirmity would not prevent his joining.

"I should not mind trying," said Louis, "if I might have the choosing of the subject. I know a capital story of heroism—suppose that we fix upon that."

"That may suit you, Louis, as you wish to be a soldier, but what have we girls to do with it?" said Amy, who had often been laughed at for her want of the quality in question.

"I see no objection to the subject," observed Mr. Presgrave cheerfully, "if the rest of the party agree. So little is fighting a necessary mark of heroism, that we may banish it from our stories altogether, and yet have no difficulty in selecting examples. I should not be much surprised either," added he, smiling at Amy, "if some of these examples should be afforded by women."

"Are our stories to be true ones?" asked Jessy.

"Oh! I hope they are to be true!" cried Julia, "for I never could make anything out of my own head!"

"True let them be, my little lamb," said Mr. Presgrave, patting her rosy cheek. "I like everything better for being true."

"Shall we give real names? Perhaps our heroes might not like it," observed Willy thoughtfully.

"Well considered, my boy. I know few things so odious as spreading tales and reports of others; but as in this case the anecdotes will all be favourable to their heroes, I think that, without scruple, we may give their real names."

"But," said Julia, "must we keep so very close to truth in our stories, and not alter them in the very least bit? Perhaps we have heard them but once ourselves, and do not remember them quite exactly."

"Or we wish to make our story more striking, by dressing it up a little," added Bella. "We may want to say that our hero wore a purple cloak, when we do not know whether it was purple or black, or whether he wore a cloak at all."

"Oh! My poetical young lady, since you have given us fair warning, you may dress up your heroes in any way that you please, only let your facts be correct. But oh! Remember," he added very earnestly, "that when you profess to repeat exact truth, no changing should ever be permitted. The exaggerated description to heighten effect, words put into mouths that never have spoken them, these are all wanderings from the straight line of truth, and lead the mind insensibly to error and falsehood."